Six Beers
by Myurra-K
Summary: "The only difference between a straight guy and a gay guy is six beers." Words of wisdom, Kenny finds, aren't much credit if they come from one's parents. In the uphill battle of figuring out his sexuality, it's odd how many times such a stupid statement would come to mind. (K2, onesided Twenny)


**Six Beers**

_"The difference between a straight guy and a gay guy is six beers."_

I first heard this when I was only eleven. They were words from my father's mouth, but not to me. I'd simply overheard it, venturing past the TV room and into the kitchen, my stomach achingly empty. I was scavenging right now, so queer statements being idly slurred over the footy between grown men wasn't my biggest concern. I'd heard some weird things from my parents before, and this certainly didn't take the cake, but years later I'd reconsider that maybe it was right up there.

Like the underfed child I was, I made enough racket in the kitchen cupboards in my hunt for sustenance that I drowned out the rest of the conversation, and hence, the entire thought itself.

Years later, at fourteen, I was leaning out my open window and recalling the school day – something that in and of itself wasn't all that spectacular or interesting. My day, on the other hand,_ had_ been...

.:.

* * *

We'd had maths cancelled for the day, but before we could burn our textbooks and march down the street with pride and joy, we were immediately told that we were instead to attend a workshop in the Hall. Apparently we'd all had permission slips mailed to our parents to skip the missing link, also known as the_ 'student'_, and save the head office the costs of reprinting. World Class School, this is.

Not our fault that permission slips remarkably resemble paper plane stock materials.

So there I was, sitting between Stan Marsh and Eric Cartman in the Hall, trying my best to see over Tweek's mussed blonde head and spazzing hands as he freaked out about one thing or another to Craig; both incredibly tall, and both seated directly in front of me. And here I'd always thought coffee was supposed to stunt your growth.

Finally, somebody saved me the effort by taking the microphone, turning it on. The result was the ear-piercing shrill that begun beaming from the speakers, leaving the kids up front and down back covering their ears. Thankfully the idiot who had the volume turned right up rectified the problem before somebody kicked his ass. It'd happened before.

"Kids, I want you all to give a warm hand to our local Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender activist group!"

_Oh boy._

Turns out it was a meeting to try and dispel sexuality myths among youths and all that bullshit. There was only a brief glazing over bullying, as the group was already aware that we were probably one of the least homophobic schools in the country, but there was a lot of prolonged waxing over the suffering and confusion of teenagers during these years of our lives. _Blah, blah, blah._

I'd thought,_ Seriously, what pussies. They totally deserve the suffering if they can't just man up and admit to themselves they like dick._

I'd practically tuned out the entire workshop until one of the spokeswomen started talking earnestly about the possibility of knowing a person of a different sexuality, and seeing them every day.

Cartman just had to open his big fucking mouth, didn't he? Seriously, I was perfectly fine wallowing in denial until he came along.

"You must remember that any comment, whether intentionally hurtful or simply naïve, may be negative on the people in your life too scared to open up about their differences. You could be sitting next to a lesbian, gay, or bisexual student one day at school-"

"I'm sitting next to one right now!" Cartman had shouted out, waving his hand out to make sure the woman's attention was caught. There was a small ripple of laughter, a few turned heads, and then I realised. Cartman was on the aisle seat. I was the only person next to him.

I felt hot, unexplainably so, and I just know I was glowing red with embarrassment. The only people who weren't laughing that I could see were Tweek, Kyle, and Wendy across the row.

"Now, that's inappropriate, young man," one of our teachers called out from a few rows of seats away.

That afternoon, with my hand out the window catching snowflakes, I was stewing.

That alone was nothing like me. I didn't blush about things Cartman said, I didn't get embarrassed or ashamed about anything. If people didn't like me how I came that was their own tough luck. So what if I didn't talk much. So what if I wore the same jacket three days a week. So what if I'd rather hold grudges against my friends than work it out with them. When I eventually forgot about what was pissing me off, it obviously no longer mattered, and seeing as that always happened, I saw no use in telling anybody off or picking fights.

But this was eating at me. Was he calling me a fag? I loved girls – I absolutely loved girls. Everything about their bodies was amazing to me. Sure, I hadn't had a girlfriend in two years, but most of my friends had _never_ had girlfriends.

Was Cartman just being Cartman? If so, which Cartman was he being? The one that fucks around and takes any opportunity to dig his thumbnails in, or the one that knows things nobody else does and drops hints as casually as he would if he were just trying to get you worked up?

I'd never thought about something so hard in my life.

I went over each detail of the workshop that I could remember, thought back to every moment of my life that might've been a little suspicious along the way, and even did a couple of completely unhelpful _Google_ searches that left me even more confused and sick than before. I mean both _'oh my god, people get off on that?'_ sick and_ 'what if I am? What the hell am I going to do? How will I tell my friends?'_ sick.

Complete with the queasy, hyperventilating, on the verge of slapping my pussy-weak self out of it feelings that I _never_ felt before.

What if? Is it possible that I'd just been so far down in the depths of denial that absolutely nothing until now had triggered it? Oh god, would I have to start talking with a lisp and crossing my legs at the knees?

_Wham!_

"Kenny, 'ave you seen your sister?" my father's voice slurred in my ears.

Like a bullet, the words came to me._ 'The difference between a straight guy and a gay guy is six beers.'_

Drunkenly, my dad rocked on his feet, bumping into the door and sending it slamming back against the wall with a loud bang, almost as loud as the first one. He blinked at it, rubbed his oily brow, then lifted his cap back off his brown hair and scrubbed his dirty nails through it. I watched, the words echoing, bouncing back and forth. I spotted the beer in his hand, a bit of froth on the lip of the can, the lightbulb in my mind flickering on once more.

"Oh, ne'er mind. She's at 'er friend's house," he remembered, grinning at me, his youngest son. His good, mostly sober younger son who rarely stole his beer and only got high of chemical fumes and not smoke of any kind. A better son than his oldest.

_Not for long._

"Hey, dad?" I asked, still eyeing his beer. "Is...the game on?"

He looked a little surprised. "Uh... it is."

"Mind if I watch it with you?"

"Not at all!"

Being as drunk as he was, he soon forgot how many beers he'd offered me during the course of the two hours we were home alone. With my sixth and final can in my hand, my head feeling just the slightest bit foggier than I'd imagined it feeling after this many drinks, I watched the front door creak open almost in slow motion. Ma came in with Karen behind her, plastic bags in both their hands.

"Food!" dad cheered, nearly toppling out of his chair. I wasn't much better, feeling ravenous enough to eat the damn plastic bags too if I had to. Of course, the second it was carpet under my feet and not the lounge seat, I was careening forward onto my knees. "Oh, fuck. Ya'lright there, Ken?"

"Stuart! Did you get another son o' yours drunk again?"

"Aye, he's not drunk, woman! Are ya, Ken?"

"Oh man...I'm _so_ fucking drunk..." And so the fireworks began. I, of course, barely noticed, and instead I couldn't help but wonder aloud, "am I gay yet?"

Perhaps that sentence would've sparked concern in them if they were proper parents and not already tearing at each other's throats. Verbally, of course.

"You useless son of a bitch!"

"Stupid whore!"

It went on like this for all of five minutes.

With Karen helping me wobble my way into the kitchen, then serving me up a packet of jerky and a glass of milk, I realised it was because I was her favourite brother and she loved me the most. It was probably the first time I acknowledged this in years, and scooped her into a huge hug. "I love you!" I cried into her hair, feeling this overwhelming burst of happiness at having her in my arms. "You're so beautiful, my beautiful little sister. You're so perfect, baby girl. I'm gonna be the best man at your wedding!" Sure, I was slurring like I'd just had an epileptic fit, and I probably reeked of beer and was making no sense at all, but she was giggling and smiling and that's what mattered.

God, I just wanted to hold her forever!

"Kenny, let go of your sister, she needs to breathe," mum tells me, her arm around my dad's hip as she drags his weight into the kitchen with her. She's smiling though, and they're actually holding each other rather than helping one another stand. They share a kiss and quiet 'I love you's before sitting down to dig into whatever scraps of food we'd hauled in for the next few days.

Seeing them interact like that, even after a fight, and having my sister sitting on my lap – even if it was only because I still didn't want to let go of her – I really appreciated in that moment that my family all love each other.

Kevin may be a deadbeat stoner, and my parents drunken crackheads, and my little sister was wearing clothes that were a size too small for her and at least five sizes too small for other girls her age, but at least we were all here together.

I didn't care who I ended up with, or even if I never made anything more of myself than I already was, as long as we were this happy at the end of the day.

After waking up the next morning with a murderous migraine and the reek of beer still lingering in my nose, I came to the conclusion that six beers does not make you gay.

.:.

* * *

Over time, I think I just forgot about my lapse of sexual confidence. It was always there in the back of my head, but I didn't think about it or talk about it. In fact, it was like the workshop had never happened, except for the total mindfuck that had occurred in the following month. Tweek had come out as bisexual by complete accident, and Butters had re-affirmed his heterosexuality by nabbing himself a real girlfriend. A hot one, too.

But even those things just became a natural part of life. Butters and Lexus were always together, both spewing so much sugary lovey dovey crap that nobody could stand the cavities and tended to leave them alone. As for Tweek's accidental outing of bisexuality by Clyde, nobody really cared, or at least they pretended they didn't. I, actually, didn't care at all what sexuality, gender, or_ species_ Tweek was. Other people didn't care in the more friendly 'you're still the same Tweek' way, though. Either that or they just didn't believe him. I know Craig didn't.

"He never talks about guys. He only talks about girls," the guy told me once. "I don't believe him."

"You're an idiot," I tell him, nibbling on an oreo. Kyle had given me a clingwrapped stack of about six that morning. Mostly my friends were dicks, but sometimes they were fucking awesome. I was lucky to have any sort of biscuit five times a year at home.

I couldn't help but wonder why nobody else understood this thing that had Craig so bent out of shape - _Tweek's not gonna talk about guys to another guy. He probably barely admits it to himself._

I don't know where that thought had come from, but it was a lot harder to pretend _that_ one had never happened than most mis-thoughts usually were.

In fact, I found myself having mis-thoughts more and more as time went on.

It wasn't until I was just barely sixteen that I actually gave a fuck that Tweek was bisexual, and it wasn't in the sense that most would think.

.:.

* * *

"Thankyou," Tweek says to me, like I actually knew what the hell I was being thanked for.

I was at the tail end of my free period, but even though I had about fifteen minutes to get to my locker and make it to class, I wasn't taking the chance, seeing as I was trying to avoid I landing my ass in detention. Again. I didn't really have it in me to nod my head to humour this guy.

"For what."

"F-for telling Craig he's an idiot!" he exclaims, his nerves getting the best of him. He covers his mouth with his hands. Checking that the only people in the hallway that we knew were Annie and Bebe, he began again. "I know it was more than a year ago, but he just didn't understand! You made him think about it."

"...Tweek, no offence, but I've called Craig an idiot loads of times. What particular occasion and why does it matter?"

He seemed a little frustrated with me, but I wasn't going to take it to heart, seeing as he was only returning the favour. I kinda hated talking to this kid. He was enormously tall and not just for our age, spectacularly androgynous in the sense he'd grown up a total - if slightly effeminate - hunk, and everybody liked him. Even Cartman thought he was cool, despite his calmer but still noticeable withdrawal-like presence.

So maybe it was shallow to hate a guy because he was taller, hotter, and cooler than me, but I was allowed to be a stubborn mule every now and then. What was that thing I mentioned about grudges? Yeah, I had a big one against this douche.

...okay, he wasn't a douche, but my friends still replaced me with him for a month or so when we were kids. I'd never quite gotten over that. I almost feel like I have to compete with him when he hangs out with us.

Not to mention the lanky fucker sits in front of me in the Hall _and_ in English class.

Did I mention he was hotter than me? I mean, I know it's stupid and childish, but I thought The List in fourth grade said that I was one place higher in the cuteness factor than him. Whatever deal he made with the Devil for his looks, why wasn't it offered to me? I'm not an unattractive guy; plenty of people have told me I'm hot and attractive. So why the hell did standing next to this guy make me feel so plain?

"...you really don't like me, do you?" he asks, sounding eerily calm. _Niagara Falls of guilt, enter stage right._

I gave a tight sigh, shoving my fists into my pockets as far into my jeans as possible. "No, Tweek, I'm just an asshole. Don't worry about it."

Kyle and Stan appeared around the corner, a couple of feet away. They were smiling and laughing, and I swear I heard 'Cartman' and 'Fatass' once or twice before they saw me. I waved, a smile forming, and they came over.

Instantly, Tweek froze, awkward.

"Hey dudes," Stan says quietly, seeing who I was talking to, glancing between us both._ Oh come on, it's not that obvious that I don't like Tweek, is it?_

Kyle paid no mind to the tension, coming up beside me and bringing an arm through mine, pulling me to his side. Thank god; another human being who was average height like me. "Kenny, man, you should've been there – Fatass totally got bitch-slapped by Wendy, dude!"

"Yeah," Stan, another tall bastard, beams, immensely proud of his girlfriend, "she left a big red mark on his fat face."

"You'll totally see it in P.E," Kyle grins, a satisfied grin curling his lips and glinting in his eyes "It's gonna bruise for sure." He loved seeing Cartman suffer. It must make him sleep better at night or something.

I glanced at Tweek by pure chance, and it was then I saw it.

Tweek was staring at something. It was an intense stare, just beyond me. I followed it, spotting Kyle in its line of fire, and a crushing feeling swallowed me whole. I knew that look anywhere, and seeing it on Tweek's face right now had me swamped. I wasn't even surprised. Just completely, undeniably, angry.

Tweek liked Kyle.

Thank Christ I was good at hiding my feelings, because when Tweek saw me glancing between him and the Jew still at my side, he turned red and fled, not even excusing himself. His sudden absence was barely acknowledged by my two friends, but it was noticed by me. Noticed and very much appreciated.

"What were you talking to Tweek about?" Stan asks suddenly, now that they've run out of steam. Kyle still seems completely oblivious, but he nods along with his best friend. I wish I'd bit my tongue and thought about my reply.

"His sexuality," I answer, shrugging casually.

There's a shared look between them, and Kyle pulls his arm out of mine. "Dude, we've been meaning to ask..." he stalls, looking to Stan for assistance.

"Well...are you bi?"

"Depends on my mood." It was meant to be a joke, but the moment the words left my tongue, they were weighed with a seriousness I couldn't really comprehend with my two best friends giving me that look. That look that was as supportive and considerate as any true best friend should look after that kind of confession.

That is, if it really was a confession.

Only...I couldn't muster up the will to force a laugh. Not after I'd just saw Tweek eyeing Kyle's ass like a piece of meat.

...okay, it was more like just appreciating him in general rather than being ravenous for his body.

"Why didn't you talk to us about it?" Stan continues, still in the lead.

I did the only thing a person with an average grade of C- would do. I shrugged. I dug my hole, and now I had to sit in it for a while until I found a way to fill it back up again. Which, with my C- average, would probably take a while.

News of my bisexuality spread pretty quickly after that, but I never found it in me to deny the questions when they came at me. Cartman was thankfully one of the last people to hear about it, so I guess the rumour mill people have some mercy after all. I think Butters was the one to tell him, naively believing that he'd go easy on one of his best friends.

Still, for something that wasn't really all that true, the insults stung a lot deeper than they should have.

I couldn't help but wonder – would Kyle turn gay for Tweek after six beers?

.:.

* * *

Turns out I didn't even need to worry about Kyle. It was my own ass I had to worry about.

We were only sixteen, but alcohol wasn't a foreign thing to us. Nor were parties. And, for the really stupid - drugs.

One of those stupid people was Cartman, but thankfully he was just a pothead, which was something I could ignore for the most of it. I just feared for the day it brought out his inner psychosis – he was already crazy as batshit. But he wasn't really my problem.

My problem was standing in front of me, holding out a drink for me to take with a never-ending shake in his hand.

Tweek was staring straight at the collar of my shirt, refusing to meet my eyes, but he was waiting patiently for me to take the bottle whether I intended on drinking it or dumping over his head. It was Canadian Club, some nice bourbon that I'd only ever tried once at Stan's, so whether it was Tweek offering or not, I wasn't going to turn it down.

I wasn't so ignorant that I didn't notice the eyes on us from around the room, watching us interact.

After all, we were the only 'bisexual' dudes in our grade. The only person we'd all thought was going to turn out gay for sure was busy making out with his long term girlfriend in the corner of Clyde's living room while her friends cheered them on.

We didn't speak during the first drink, but when Tweek offered me a second, I opened the conversation with a hesitant "Thanks," and planned on leaving it at that. Tweek didn't think so.

"Look, can we just be f-friends? I don't want you hating me."

"Why? Nobody else does. What's the harm in one person?"

He cupped his own bottle nervously, staring down into it. There was some faint colour to his cheeks, but I pinned it on the alcohol. "Because_ I_ don't hate_ you._"

"You should," I scoff, poised to take a deep swallow of my new drink. I never got the chance. Kyle came right up and stole the bottle straight out of my hand, bringing it to his own lips and smiling.

"Psyche," he teases, before slouching against the island bench. Tweek was staring between the two of us, but this time he didn't seem enamoured with the redhead beside me. He didn't blush, he didn't tuck tail and run. He pursed his lips, resigned over something, and nodded.

"I see," he whispers, twitching briefly, and walks away as calmly as I've ever seen him walk.

It all clicked together then - he wasn't checking Kyle out last month. He was trying to chat _me_ up and he was feeling some kind of negative toward Kyle continuously interrupting him. Okay, now I feel guilty as all fuck.

How the hell was I supposed to know that the very guy that made me see green had feelings for me?

Kyle just looks mildly surprised at Tweek's second abrupt exit before turning to grin at me. "We're about to play...something. I don't know what it is but it's messy and there's drinking. C'mon!"

That night, nobody turned gay, no matter how many drinks they consumed – not even the girls, despite Sarah and Rebecca making out for twenty bucks. Not even me, because Tweek never approached me again, and I was actually a bit loathe to say that I didn't really dislike the guy as much as I thought I did when I found myself hoping he'd try to talk just once more. Maybe it was the feeling of someone actually interested in me like that, or maybe there_ was_ an essence of homo to my sexuality, but I was really disappointed in myself for not realising sooner, and annoyed with Kyle for potentially cockblocking me like that.

Judging by the waste, there was a lot of drinks consumed, but there was no batters lining up to hit for the other team. Perhaps my dad was just an idiot.

Maybe there isn't such a thing as sexual experimentation.

...

Only, there is.

.:.

* * *

"Hey, dude," Kyle says somewhat nervously. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for whatever the hell is about to come out of his mouth. Lately, some weird things have been starting to fall out of it, like "what's kissing a guy like" and "have you done it with another dude". It was a never ending mystery that I had absolutely no desire to solve. This time is exactly like the last when he watches me for a few moments, waiting for a sign that I'd heard him, and just like the last times, I waved my hand in greeting.

Surprise surprise, it's another sexuality question.

"If I made out with a guy, would it mean anything?" he asks, sitting down nervously on my bed beside me. I still hadn't lowered my Nascar mag to look at him, seeing as he'd helped himself in and he hadn't even brought a peace offering.

Of course, I didn't know that for sure because I hadn't looked. When he held out a packet of Doritos I was much more invested in our conversation.

"Kyle, we went over this in school, in Health class, with teachers. Professionals." I remind him. He seems torn.

"Yeah, but..."

I still haven't denied my supposed bisexuality. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was totally jealous of another guy, which although not uncommon, was also strangely focussed on how attractive the guy was. Only, that jealousy had faded ever since I realised what I had about the other boy and his crush on me. It wasn't my ego talking, either. I asked the go-to Butters just to be sure, and it turns out I had guessed right. I was halfway between working up the balls to go to him, and trying to encourage him to come up to me again. I wasn't exactly the warmest person our last two chats.

I don't even know what's wrong with me - one day I'm telling myself I hate his guts, the next I'm curious as hell because he _likes_ me? How the hell do I apologise for being such a prick when all he was trying to do was see if he had a chance? What if I'm just feeling like a shitty human being and this curiosity is mostly me feeling sorry for him? I don't want to date someone out of pity, especially a guy when I don't even know for sure that I'm into them.

_Before that damn party I would've said I wasn't into them. Now its 'I'm not sure'. Fuck me._

Noticing Kyle still sitting dejectedly beside me, I decide to ask my own question.

"Do you think Tweek's hot?"

I probably could've phrased it a bit better, but the blunter the question the clearer the answer.

"Uh, well," Kyle looked a bit put on the spot, "I guess. Do...is that why...uh..."

He was nervous. I swooped in heroically to save him. "Forget I asked; it's alright." He slouching back to lay awkwardly across my bed in relief. My feet were digging into his back but I didn't point it out, seeing as they were bare and he was now keeping them warm for me. "And Kyle...making out with a guy is just like making out with a girl – it doesn't mean anything unless you want it to."

He stayed silent, which was always something I hated people doing after I give them advice. I have no idea if they think I'm a fucking genius or if they think I'm fucking retarded. In the hopes that it was the former, I gave another attempt at prodding the bear.

"Why? Did you and Stan make ass babies or something?"

"Sick, dude!"

.:.

* * *

_One beer. Two beers. Three beers. Four._

I had the two lids and two pull tabs on my leg in front of me. I started a little tradition a while back. I would always keep the bottle caps and the pull tabs off all my drinks and hide them in my pocket. That way, in the morning, I would always know exactly how many drinks I had.

I never drank anything out of a cup unless the bottles and cans weren't free.

One last swallow of the can in my hand and I ripped off the fifth pull tab, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve as I did so. Five beers on my record, and the proof now secured in my pocket, I stumbled off in search of something. Maybe another drink, or maybe another friend, I have no idea at this point.

All I know is that the pockmark texture of the paint on Stan's walls is really trippy. And cold.

My face feels awesome, even if I am pressed up against the wall in Stan's living room, with no idea how I got here, and a sober Clyde sitting at the bottom of the Marsh's stairs staring at me with a grin etching into his face. "Dude, you alright?"

"I'm okay. I just need a minute," I think I tell him. He obviously doesn't understand but he nods anyway. Asshole. No help for the misfortunate.

Stan comes by at one moment, checking that I'm okay, before going off in search of Wendy, who unlike himself had actually decided to drink that night. Stan would've been right here with me, cheek to wall, if the party wasn't at his house, but he was always much more responsible than the other kids.

And his parents, apparently, who thought their son wouldn't misbehave if they left him and his sister alone for two nights.

Party the first, cleaned up by the second, and it's like nothing ever happened, so long as nothing gets broken.

And so long as I don't melt into the paintwork, because this still feels awesome even after several minutes. Clyde's gone and got himself a coke and has come back – I think it's for the sole purpose of watching me become one with the plaster beneath.

"What're you doin'?" Kyle asks, stumbling up.

"He's in the middle of a metamorphosis into a chameleon," Clyde informs, sipping his coke. Kyle ignores him and comes up next to me, staring. He's got a funny, glazed light in his eye, one smouldering with curiosity.

"You want another drink?" he manages. I squint as I make out the words, but I must've nodded as well because he holds his beer out to me. I take it without thought.

Kyle smiles, I add another bottle cap to my collection against my thigh, and Clyde watches on as he takes me by the arm and pulls me up the stairs, whispering loudly as though the sober boy wasn't right there dodging our feet. "Just be quiet," he tells me, hauling me even though I was willingly coming along. "No one will know."

Clyde's still watching from the stairs, having followed us up, as we disappear into Stan's room, alone together, and Kyle still has that glint in his eye.

_Blind rotten drunk._

.:.

* * *

When I wake up, I kinda wanted to just bury my head under cement, or hot tar, or anything less painful than the initial jackhammer that seems to have taken a liking to my skull. With a pathetic groan, I manage the grand gesture of flopping off my side and onto my stomach, face buried in a pillow that smelled completely like my jockstrap friend.

Twenty-three seconds into consciousness and the massacre of my neurons has slowed to a dull throb. It was tolerable.

The cotton wrapped around my teeth certainly wasn't.

I'm still tonguing the terrible feeling, stretching out my limbs behind me, when I feel another leg with my toes.

A distinctly hairy and not at all smooth feminine leg.

_Crap._

Peeling my eyes apart is an easier task than trying to focus on remaining calm, so I decide to do that. I remember the night in sequence. I remember drinking a lot of drinks in a short amount of time, and I remember Clyde's watchful eyes as Kyle dragged me upstairs to Stan's-

_Kyle!_

My poor attempt at opening my eyes is completed in the very second I repeat my friend's name in my head. A knee is resting none too far from my face, blotting out all streams of conscious thought. I know those jeans.

Stan's sitting there, on a computer chair, with his arms crossed and his legs spread like a typical macho male, staring at the two of us blankly. Seeing me wake, he raises one eyebrow, waiting for some kind of explanation. He's completely out of luck, let me tell you.

"Sleep well?" he asks, having realised that I was in too much shock to actually say anything without prompting. He probably took pity because he realised how creepy it is to sit there and stare at your friends until they wake up.

I barely recognise my own voice. "Like you wouldn't imagine."

"Good," he tells me, seeming cheery enough. "Then you and my deadbeat best friend can burn those sheets and steam clean the mattress after breakfast and a shower."

At first, I'm completely stoked that he's letting us have breakfast and a shower. Then, I feel sick all over again. I go to tell him that nothing happened, demand him to agree with me, but he silences me with that same single-raised-brow look that tells me he's actually really amused by this. I kinda pegged him as the 'hurt my best friend and I'll kill you' type rather than the 'thank fuck he finally got laid' guy, but I guess he's not as possessive as I thought.

"And before you try and say 'nothing happened', don't even try. I went to crawl in with you guys last night and you're both completely naked."

I snorted, then wished I kinda didn't.

"Alright. Seeing as you've both defiled my bed and I'm blaming you, I'm totally letting you wake him up, because seeing Kyle's naked ass a second time is not something I have on my agenda for today."

"I didn't start it!" I protest, but what started as a shout withered to a meek cry. Stan's already at the door and leaving.

That wasn't at all as painful as I thought it would've been. Actually, I've never considered that situation in my entire life, and considering that I just got busted after doing something that I probably shouldn't have done, that thing being Kyle's ass, the lack of thought totally explains itself.

_Fuck, my head is throbbing._

Kyle stirs next to me, and it occurs to me that I haven't even looked at him yet. I don't even want to move. So, I do the only explainable thing and pretend I'm still asleep, facing away from him and staring at Stan's door.

There's a shift, a few groans and mutters, then an elbow grazes my spine. Kyle freezes behind me.

"Oh...well, fuck. Like I didn't expect this to happen, idiot," he mutters to himself, whatever that means, and lies still for a few more moments before carefully sliding out of the bed, no doubt searching out for his clothes among our mutually gathered piles around the room. I make sure to keep my eyes shut and my breathing natural and slow, listening to each movement and expletive.

I hear him coming closer and tense, ready, waiting. He stands there for a while, staring at me I think, before his fingertips come down to graze across my face. It's only a light touch, and I know it's not enough to wake me where I asleep, so I keep on pretending, even though having Kyle touching my cheekbones isn't something I thought would happen after whatever already happened last night.

"Damnit."

_I'm really confused._

Eventually he sighs, then in contrast to his gentle touch before he grabs my shoulder and gives it one hard shake. That would wake me up, so I pretend to be groggy, letting out a groan of very real pain, reaching up to cover my eyes. Before I've moved my hand away, the door's opened and shut, and Kyle's no longer in there with me.

I'm sore, confused, and my teeth still feel like cotton.

.:.

* * *

Downstairs is a shambles. There's rubbish everywhere, and Stan's new beagle puppy Sushi has torn apart several plastic cups, leaving them in slobbery pieces. There's a spillage of cheese balls on the couch, and a random red stilletto heel propped up against the leg of the coffee table.

I knew a few people would still be there in the morning, but upon entering the kitchen I'm actually a little surprised. There's about ten people aside from Stan sitting around, bags under their eyes and struggling through their morning coffees.

Kyle's the first one who notices me, and despite his own slightly worn appearance, he's more alert than the rest of the ones who'd been drinking. He turns bright red and looks down at his hands. Cartman's at the table nursing his head, Bebe and Wendy are sitting on the kitchen counter picking silly string out of each other's hair, and Clyde's talking purposely loud to Stan about how all the other people who weren't hungover or sick had already headed home. Craig, contradicting Clyde's point, looks completely unaffected from his corner on the kitchen floor even though I'd seen him drink more than most. He has Tweek's head in his lap, the blonde boy bent at an awkward angle to accommodate his size, fast asleep despite appearing twisted in a way most uncomfortable.

The rest I don't even really notice before Clyde spots me too. He gives a glance to Kyle, who's still glowering into his mug and beaming red, then back to me. "Which level of hangover are _you_?" he asks, drawing attention to my entrance.

"I'm just shy of whatever level Cartman's at," I tell them, grinning a little when Cartman lifts a hand to flip me off, a muttering that could've only been an insult from behind his other hand. He was really suffering for whatever kind of partying he did last night.

I kinda hoped Stan would be a good best friend and keep his discovery to himself, save Kyle and I some dignity. But oh no, not Stan Marsh.

"Whatever, dude. You and Kyle better make sure that my bed's completely safe for sleeping on the second you're both cleaned up. Have that room fumigated if you have to."

_Homophobe._

Kyle's so red he looks like he's about to explode, but he's still yet to turn his glare from anybody but his mug. Clyde's grinning wolfishly, though.

My only saving grace is that everyone's too sick and miserable to give more than a brief hard laugh of surprise, quickly returning back to their wallowing at the shock of pain. That and I think I'm also coming down with a serious case of Empathy, because I'm actually kind of glad that Tweek's snoozing away on Craig's thighs right now.

Staring at Kyle a little longer than necessary, I find myself wondering the only logical thing at nine in the morning with a lethal hangover and a legitimate case of sex hair. _Now what?_

.:.

* * *

Walking through the door at one in the afternoon, feeling thankfully lightheaded due to the excess painkillers I'd consumed, I spotted my father almost instantly. He was right there on the couch, with Gerald, Randy, Butters' dad Stephen, and Craig's dad, all sitting around him. They were watching knowingly as I stumbled my way through the door, still feeling ill and incredibly hungry, but thankfully clean and pain free.

"Have fun?" my father asked, smiling, like this entire thing wasn't his fault.

My grin was also a wince. "Loads," I tell him, fishing around in my pocket. I toss the six beer bottle caps and beer can pull tabs at his feet, taking in his surprise and incomprehension with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Fuck you, dad. I'm going back to bed."

They're all still staring at the caps and tabs like they're some kind of alien technology even as I made my way into my room. My father was so stumped by my 'gift' that he didn't even smack me across the head for swearing at him.

I pull the curtain made out of an old bed sheet over my window, peel off the layers of day old clothes, then crawl over my covers with the kind of staggering childlike motions of a toddler. Whatever happens monday, I don't really care. Just so long as the next time Kyle decides he wants a piece, he doesn't wait until we're both intoxicated.

_Wait...I didn't just...ah, fuck it. I'd totally do him again._

"Wow," I laugh, already feeling myself fading with exhaustion, giddy with a relief I couldn't be fucked to analyse, "I'll be damned. Six beers really was all it took to turn me gay."

Well, six beers _and_ Kyle's ass, but who's counting?

.:.

* * *

**MK.**


End file.
